The Windy Thing
by cantankerousMaiden
Summary: Tavros ascends. One shot.


The Windy Thing

A/N: Just a quick birthday present for a sweet chica on my tumblr roll! She mentioned she wanted some pbj, and who the hell am I to deny her that? Though I kind of went about it in a backhanded manner, um. Sorry. It's still there. Also, less of a headcanon and more what I desperately want to happen ughh I am going to have to get used to disappointment. I hope your birthday is the best thing ever, hon!

* * *

Three years is a long time. A long motherfuckin' time when you stop to fuckin' think about it, and longer when you live it. Three human years, longer than a full fuckin' sweep, just ticking into the empty blackness. Once upon a motherfucking time, you might have thought spending three years trapped on an asteroid with your friends, hurtling through the fabric of space and time, watching reality bend around you, off to restore the universe or give it a goddamn jump start or something – you once might have thought such a scenario would have been pretty motherfucking miraculous. But three years is a long time. Longer when you live it. Longer still when you're waiting.

You don't really believe in miracles anymore.

Is that tired? Is a resounding loss of faith in those sweet, singing miracles a motherfuckin' cliché? Well that's just too goddamn bad. You don't know what the fuck else you're supposed to do on the darkest rock with the darkest secrets while the deepest motherfucking darkness swallows all that's left over for three motherfucking years. Are you supposed to raise your mutilated face to the empty void you're pretty fucking sure you created somehow and sing your songs to the mirthful messiahs? If this whole fucking mess, every motherfucking molecule of existence, is somehow your fault, your responsibility, how can there be a messiah to anything? It sure didn't work out too well when you took it upon yourself to fill those motherfucking vacant shoes.

They thought for a while that Dave might not have been safe with you. That was a pretty motherfucking reasonable assumption, all things considered, but it wasn't his fault. Not really. It took you a while – a while and a great many well-timed paps – to figure that out, but it's the truth. Dave didn't destroy a single fucking thing. How could he, when there was nothing to destroy in the first place? You were the one to go out and disassemble all the holy orders and motherfucking ordinations. His blood dried on your lips. That's on you.

If there were any motherfucking miracles left, you think they'd be in Karkat. How that scrawny motherfucker keeps it all together – keeps you together, how one troll can carry around so much pity for everyone and everything, that would be sick shades of shimmering miraculous, if that was still a fucking thing. But it's not. It's not, because for three motherfucking years, your own words rang loud and clear through every hollow crevice and fracture of your fried fucking thinkpan

(paint the wicked pictures)

(paint them with your motherfucking blood)

(from your veins)

(stardust)

(bones)

(blood)

(**MY MIRACLES**)

and you just motherfucking know there are no miracles. There never were. This game, this endless looping sick-ass motherfucking reach-around bullshit precludes the very possibility of miracles. The only real thing, the only thing worth every wretched beat of your pump-organ, the only thing to hold on to, are the crazy motherfuckers giving this game a run for its motherfucking money.

"Do the windy thing!" John calls out, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And he does. The cripple, the corpse, the Page of Breath – he unfurls his wings and his aspect shudders across the planet. Every living thing is called to attention, to watch as the hero rises and tilts his head heavenward, as you can no longer do. He does the windy thing, and you almost laugh.

You spent three years on that rock, three years with the voices of the freshly dead, and you became very sure of what not to believe in. But goddamn if it isn't high motherfucking time for you to sink some wicked inversions and bathe in the motherfucking light of what deserves your faith. He's not a miracle. He doesn't have to be. He's beyond that; he's better. He's the only god you want to follow.

And damned if the wings don't motherfucking suit him.


End file.
